Okay, I know it’s been awhile, but I’ve been busy, next week is the week before performance, and lots and lots of hours go into this practice. I am continually writing the manuscript though-Hit fifty pages and beyond!
Also, I’m at a crossroads. Do you think Legolas should die in my story? Do you want yourself to be introduced as a character? Email me at email@example.com to tell me what you think. Comments are always appreciated, as are votes and suggestions.
Namarie for now,
“Niandil! Niandil!” she sobbed, without a thought to the escaped Haldìr. Night was soon upon them, but Liedral lay next to her beloved Niandil, warming him with her body. He was vaguely aware of it, and immensely grateful in the dim depths of his fevered mind.
The sun broke over the treetops in a fiery blast, dispelling the darkness. Its warm rays fell upon the sleeping pair, and the dew rose from their bodies in breathy steam.
Niandil awoke fist, and was amazed to find the camp restored, a small fire crackling merrily, water boiling above it in a small pot. The fragrant smell of bacon filled the air, and he could see a small frying pan filled with strips of the salty repast.
And yet Liedral was nestled against him, secure in the crook of his right arm. He furrowed his brow, puzzled, as he eased himself into a sitting position.
A shadow fell over him, and he twisted to see a grinning Haldìr. Niandil gave a strangled cry and tried to scoot away. A sharp pain up and down his limb reminded him of his broken leg.
“What do you want?” he demanded authoritatively.
His cry had awoken Liedral. “What is it, Niandil?” she asked sleepily, sitting up.
“Regina…My Regina…” murmured Haldìr in a strange, broken whisper. Liedral froze as he laid his hands on her head. Only a small whimper that escaped her lips and her darting eyes betrayed her fear.
Haldìr knelt behind Liedral slowly, as if in dream, and began crooning an eerie melody in Sindarin. Niandil understood enough of it to know that it was a song of lost love regained.
“What do you want with me?” cried Liedral at last fear dominating her voice.
“Regina, I just want you to come home with me, home to Lothlòrien.” A pleading note entered his voice, which was a cracking alto rather than his usual baritone. “Please,” he begged.
“Who is Regina?” asked Niandil in a stage whisper.
“She was–is my mother,” said Liedral with difficulty. “Haldìr’s wife,” she added for good measure,
Niandil opened his mouth to speak, but Haldìr let out a low moan and sank to the earth. Liedral managed to catch his head and lay it down gently on the ground with a sigh. She turned a sorrowful face to Niandil.
“What are we going to do?” she asked. “I can’t leave him here…” She trailed off, gazing at Niandil dolefully.
“Help me lay him out straight, and tell me exactly why you’re running away?” suggested Niandil. “Although if Haldìr’s your father, who could really blame you?”
Liedral straightened Haldìr’s body and sighed again. “He’s not my father. That’s a long story, of which I have yet to learn al the details.” She stood and tidied the camp.
Niandil smiled sympathetically. “Your mother wasn’t married to the man who sired you, was she?”
Liedral looked up from the fire, which she was tending. “How did you know that?” she asked, stunned and ashamed.
“My mother wasn’t either,” said Niandil sadly.